


Forth Again to Behold the Stars

by allonsytotumblr



Series: Violently Feminist Interpretations of Tolkien's Women [9]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Art, Canonical Character Death, Dragons, F/M, Feminist Themes, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-03-03 20:06:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13348557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsytotumblr/pseuds/allonsytotumblr
Summary: Niënor Níniel puts her life back together after Turin's death.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to theserpentsadvocate, I'm writing this fic with you in mind.

She ran. Running was the beginning old her life- her old life as Níniel- and now the end. It was not raining now. It had been raining then. At least it had in the past days, and the Taiglin would be swollen and raging enough for her purposes.

She was clothed now, she had not been then, her whole body slick with water. She was clothed in her new memories, thick, and heavy, and inescapable. Turambar was her brother. Túrin was her husband. Never had she felt more wicked.

 _But I, we, knew it not!_ She screamed at the dark sky which seemed to glower down in judgement. But ignorance could not blot out her guilt. Only water could.

It was farther to the river than she had thought, and her need to absolve herself vied with her body, exhausted, pregnant, and tired from following on after Turambar.

His child curled up inside her would die as well, either from secondhand loss of air as she drowned, or with the force of being battered against the rocks. One way or another, the line of Húrin would end. She felt powerful as she ran- it would have been more fitting if she was barefooted, the souls of her feet slashed and bleeding across the ground in a final penance- but she was not. Clothes and shoes would drag her down into the water more quickly anyway.

The river rushed away from her, its noise deafening, frightening and munotionous, going on and on, never tiring for rocking, logs, boats, or bodies that blocked its path. Mayhap she would be carried out all the way to the sea- for all waters ended there. Her corpse would be found and buried my simple fisher folk who lived along its edges. Were there such people at the end of it? She did not know. Niniel had not concerned herself with the world beyond Brethil. Turambar had been her entire world, her savior. Níniel had a house, a husband, a baby, a nameless sorrow and that was enough. Niënor, the other woman that Glaurung had put into her head, like a branch grafted onto another tree, did not know either. At least Niënor knew what she was mourn for.

She could not jump from here, although she wanted to die, she wanted it done quickly, painlessly, not from a jumble of broken limbs on jutting rocks. She picked her way downwards, toward the river, her adrenaline fading, leaving her gasping, exhausted. The practical thoughts of suicide seemed vulgar, but she wanted to do it properly, a nice clean end to this doom.

Dying was what was expected of her, really. If the story of her parentage got around after her death, the village would mourn, of course, but their sorrow would be contingent upon her being dead, removed. Had she endured, gone back to Nan Girith and then on to Brethil, birthed the child on her own, been unrepentant for an accidental sin, she would not have received the lavish pity a dead woman would. These thoughts were harsh and cynical, not from Níniel, but Niënor had a harder mind and saw people through eyes tainted with suffering and her mother’s pride.

And the child, already distending her body as she herself had Morwen’s after her father went away? Close kin could not marry for undefined reasons, it was not permitted and it was disgusting, but had this not been enough explanation, there were stories of twisted children coming  from such unions, unnatural like two headed calves. Would this child be such? Quickly smothered with blankets after its unfortunate birth or to live on as a grotesque reminder of their sin?

The rocks she was clambering down were slick with moss and she slipped, clutching at air falling, for a moment fearing that this was it, and she was going to go to her death by misstep, not by her own power, then feeling the welcome jarring of stone against her body as she landed safely. This would be a fine spot from which to leap, once she managed to stand up.

The weight in her stomach kicked her. This was not the first time she had felt such, the insistent tattoo produced as the child turned in its sleep. Or was it now awake, conscious of her intention, begging to be let out, freed from a dying woman? She stood, feeling again the kicking against the firm half circle of her belly, and the raw scrapes on the palms of her hands where she had landed. None of this was the child’s fault. She and this unborn baby were the last of Húrin’s house. She had seen Turambar die, and now remembered an older, sister her mother had seldom spoken of.  Niënor’s memories did not hint at whether Húrin or Morwen were alive- but that must be beyond hope, with the doom that laid on their family.

What would her mother, the woman she had known, forgot, and now knew again from memory, say if she beheld her daughter now? Morwen did not think well on suicide, not even for those desperate or bereaved. Nienor had had an aunt, Rían, “a sweet women,” others in their household said. “A spineless fool,” said Morwen, even though it was her own dead sister that she spoke of. “Dying of sorrow from the loss of her husband. I bore you in sorrow, and such is your name, Niënor, but I did not let myself die with your father, as if I was merely a frail flower with no life apart from his. Never be as she was, for Rían rots with the slain at Haudh-en-Nirnaeth, but we yet live, although burdened by the same grief.” Niënor had been very young then, and the frightening image of rotting bodies had been the main thing that remained with her, but now she remembered the strength with which her mother had gripped her young shoulders, Morwen’s words sharp, proud, and cold, like steel.

If Morwen learned of her daughter’s deed, she would be ashamed, even from death, she would scorn her daughter, grudging that their bodies must lay in the same earth. “Niënor, a spineless fool,” she would say to Húrin, wherever their two souls might be. “A coward, her mind broken by a dragon’s magics and her own weakness, unable to bear up under horrors.”

The baby kicked again, as if trying to run and a breeze blew up from the dark water below. Again she was in the wild, alone, having run away, but this time there would be no group of hunters to find her. She must rescue herself and this baby, or follow through with this jump. The night was cold now, and she wanted to sit, crouched out of the wind, but that would mean that she meant to stay here, alive, still caring about the comfort of her body.

 _Jump,_ shouted her mind, but more weakly now. The voice could be from traces of the dragon’s magics, still upon her. She wanted something strong enough to compel her to action, to leap or to begin the long journey home, and she could find neither in her mind. But Glaurung was dead, his body cooling next to Túrin on, and while she could not rightly be held accountable for that she had done unwittingly, now, free from endorsements, the fault would be squarely hers. Would not her and the child’s deaths please him? His final action having riven her to complete despair and death?

Incest, a past revealed, a dead husband and brother, were these enough to balance out the scales of guilt? She stood on her toes, leaning forward, but found that she could not bend her knees to jump. Self preservation, the same thing that had pushed her to run from Glaurung when she first lost her mind now held her back.

 _Kick, kick, kick._ The village would not have to know that she was Hurin’s daughter. She alone knew, and she would tell Brandir, of course, but secrets could be kept between two such as themselves. She would be a sadly widowed wife whose husband died a brave death, and she at least had a child to remember him by. She could go on being Niniel. Niniel could never have born such a burden, but Niënor could. _“Never be as she was...and we yet live.”_

Her scraped hands were bleeding from the fall, the blood a sticky, congealing substance on her palms. She wiped them roughly on her firm stomach, leaving stains, but she did not want to leave a trail of blood stains on the rocks that she used as hand holds to climb up. The baby was still, satisfied. It would not die tonight, nor its mother. She was stronger in this than Turambar, having beaten doom- for this night anyway. The ascent up the rocks was harder, easier to fall than to rise, but she did as the world began to shift its colors from deep black to washed out gray. She had forgotten that morning would ever come.

There was no need to run back towards the town. She was tired, in mind and body of flight, and walking gave her time to think, and prepare for the dead dragon and brother she would come upon soon.

As the great green hills of twisted dragon flesh rose into view, she was at first afraid to look at it, fearing that such a horrid thing could damage the child, for such things were known to happen, even when mothers were frightened by ordinary animals. But enough with fear. Glaurung’s death had been in vain if he continued to haunt her every action. And considering the circumstances under which it had been conceived, whatever defects it might possess were already acquired.

Approaching the body, she grasped a stone and hurled it at the scaly corpse with a wordless cry. It struck then bounced off and disappeared beyond the other side of the coiled body, producing a startled shout of pain. It could not been the dragon, for it was too human sounding, and then she saw Brandir emerge from behind it, looking wildly around him, perhaps believing that Glaurung had come to life again.

 _Now_ she ran, towards, not away. Brandir was the one she remembered, after Turambar, in the beginning of her new life, he who had healed her and taught her all the things of life that she had forgotten. It was he who should have named her, not Turambar. The former had been her true parent and tutor. But Turambar had taken her naming for himself, and Níniel, loving him, had accepted.

Reaching Brandir, she dropped to her knees and embraced him wordlessly forgetting for an instant the ill fates and revelations of the night. He was seated, for his foot, the working one had been gashed across the ankle, and the bones underneath seemed to protrude at wrong angles. He must have stepped on faulty  ground, something that she had miraculously avoided in both of her flights through forests.

Turmabar’s body lay slightly away from from the dragon’s. It was covered by a cloak, so that the features of his face were obscured, showing only the barest resemblance of a human face. This was somehow more terrifying than a clearly shown dead body- was was under the blanket had the possibility to be anything- and she turned away, listening to Brandir speak. He had pursued her, slowed by his twisted leg and the rough ground, and the night. He had come upon Túrin, and Glaurung, and both had been dead and found her gone.

“I had fallen, injuring my good leg. I could not continue searching for you, not knowing which direction you had gone, but come morning, I swear I would have crawled back to Nan Girith and formed a search party-” He continued speaking, wanting to reassure that she would have been saved in much the same manner she had years before, only without Turambar this time. He had been delayed in his pursuit, because he had met Dorlas, the craven coward who had abandoned Turambar, and killed him- there were traces of blood on the sword that lay by him- and at the base of Cabed-En-Aras he had found the body of Hunthor, his kinsman, dead, his head smashed and broken. There were bodies strewn all about in this night.

Brandir cared about her welfare, and indeed, the only time she had heard him speak against Turambar was once as he prepared to go and search for and fight Orcs on the outskirts of Brethil, something he had sworn to her he would not do if they were wed. Brandir had confronted him, not knowing that she heard. His voice had risen and fallen sharply on the other side of her bedroom’s wall, saying that Turambar was causing her great sorrow, neglecting his promise to his wife and that there were other men that could fight, that this was needless heroism, not bravery.  But Turmabar had gone anyway, not answering Brandir’s words.

She had been silent then, and she was now, listening to Brandir say that soon those from the Nan Girith must search for them soon, as it would be light and the danger would be counted as less.  Then she could go home, and her husband’s body would receive a proper burial. She was not expected to say anything- Níniel had been silent in crises before, and at most other time as well, but she was not Níniel anymore, and when he said, ‘your husband,’ she was compelled to speech.

“I have not told you where I ran or why I did so, after finding Turambar and his foe,” she began. Staring at the lightening horizon, she forced herself to recount everything, what Glaurung had done to Niënor to make her forget herself, her search for Turambar, losing her way and her power of movement, then drawn on the Glaurung to bring her to himself, how she had found Turambar, laying dead, his body burnt from dragon venom, the restoration of her memory, her horror, flight, and decision to live. “So we were, both of us, the children of Húrin, wedded and kin. This cannot be spoken of.” She glanced at Brandir, finally, and his face held no pity or disgust. If he had felt such she could not have born it, but as it was, his expression was the same calm she remembered from the first dark days when she was Níniel and brought to him for healing.

“You are so brave, as befits a child of his line. And your child will carry on his lineage.” She wanted to believe this, but there were still months of her pregnancy to pass and even then both could perish in childbirth, who could say? And Brandir must know that she did not care for fates and continued lines, for he began to speak again, “Níniel-”

‘I am not she. Níniel died with these two tonight. Now if only to you alone, I am Niënor, the name from my mother, Morwen Eledhwen.” She no longer needed to bear the name given to her by Túrin. Her brother. She must get used to thinking of him as such.

“Niënor then. I am glad that you survived this night,” he said simply. She felt the same, for who would she turn to if Brandir had perished? Her secret would rot inside her, molding. But she could find no words to express this gratitude, for Morwen’s daughter was not without pride and reticence, so she simply sat with him, between slain friend and slayed foe, waiting for the searchers as the sun rose.   



	2. Chapter 2

The woman cleaning Niënor’s wounded hands did so with quick strokes, her efficiency trying to wipe away the pain as the water made contact with the Niënor’s scraped skin. These ministrations did not hurt badly, not really, and despite all the events of the night she was in no physical pain and had sustained no great injuries. Even her mind was not damaged, broken, and although she felt the eyes of many upon her when they thought she was not looking, Niënor did not feel as though she were in shock.

The sun was out and everything seemed more garish, more bright. She and Brandir had not waited very long after daybreak before they were found. A band of the more courageous from Nan Girith had followed after them and transported Brandir and she home, bearing Túrin’s body behind them. The dragons they had left for now and it still sat at Cabed-en-Aras undisturbed. There was talk of burning it on the coming night. Dragon bodies could not be left to rot out in the open, nor could they be buried inside the earth, for it would be a great work to dig such a grave, and as it rotted, it would poison the dirt around it and its foulness would leach into the nearby water.

She had lost track of Brandir, although there seem to be fewer people than the number that had followed her last night, either because they had deserted upon hearing the sounds of battle or because she had misjudged the size of the group. The healing woman was speaking of nothing and Nienor knew that she must feel profoundly uncomfortable. Niënor. was newly a widow, having come upon her husband's body only hours ago, and her grief was indecently raw, out in the open, bleeding like fresh meat.

Or at least it should be. She did not know what to feel and wondered whether Nienor had a lessened ability to feel sorrow, after she had dealt with so much of it. It would be tricky to get used to the memories of two very different women inside of her head.

Once they had been found, Niënor. had simply told them that she had come upon her husband's body laying beside the dragon. Both had been dead already and there she had remained until Brandir had to come upon on her. Niënor. said that she had been so stricken with grief that she had been unable to go back to Nan Girith to summon the others and thus they had waited, as Brandir could not go back with his good leg now injured.

This had not been a lie so much as it had been the truth but cleverly arranged, like a piece of cloth, to hide the stained bits. It was for the people's own good anyway. Ordinary grief was one thing but to have lost a husband and a brother in one person would be unthinkable to them and she would become utterly alien.

The day passed uneventfully. At nightfall the people would ride out from Nan Girith all together, the collective mass of them shielding the members from their individual the fear of the dark and wild place that the surrounding lands had been only a night before. After reaching the dragon's body, they would build a great fire and set it alight. It would be more efficient- and safer, for who knew if other evil forced were still neigh?- to have done this during the day but of course, some the fire was for effect. A funeral pyre looked better at night and was more visible to those watching. A beacon that yes, their enemy was really dead, signalled by its transformation into a glowing, burning thing that smoked and distorted the night air around it with heat.

Turin’s body had been cleaned and prepared for burial somewhere else, Niënor did not know where and she did not want to.She had not yet beheld his face with her new understanding of who he had been.

She took stock of herself. Her hands were bandaged and she had no other injuries. Her child had been calm all day and she did not feel the need for sleep or food and she wondered how long it must be before she felt the need for either of those two things again. To speak also seemed unnecessary to her now, her throat closing up and she fancied that it would knit itself shut all together and she could speak only with herself in her mind. There was quite a lot to think on. Her memories previously having only extended a few years into the past, now stretched on and on and on, back several decades Niënor. was twenty six. She felt very old.

Dorlas' body was found and recovered, as well as Hunthor’s and these two men, along with Túrin would be buried soon too, after the charred bits of Glaurung’s death had been cleared away. Although they would not be buried together, for Dorlas had been an enemy of Túrin in life, even Niníel had noticed that much, and his wife would not let their bodies share a grave. Hunthor had been one of the people of Haleth, and his body would have to be taken farther, back to Brethil, where his wife and children could properly grieve for him, unlike Niënor over Túrin.

She had not even cried, not once. Her new name did not involve tears, only sorrow and tears did not always accompany sorrow, as now, nor sorrow tears. Túrin had called her Maid of Tears, Niníel because she had cried so copiously and often when they first found her as a dumb child. To recall that time now she had only wept so much because she had been unable to express herself any other way like a baby was. Why Túrin had chosen to bequeath her such a name based only on her actions when they first met, a name seemed to marker as one to wail and mourn and carry on for the rest of her life, was unclear. Túrin himself had had many names, shedding them like a snake changing skins. Well, she was back to her first one now, and with it came dry eyes apparently.

Niënor was not the only one who had lied this morning, for Brandir had simply said that Dorlas had not been with Túrin, Glaurung and Nienor when he had found their sad party upon Cabed-en-Arath. He had reported that he had heard Orcs moving nearby as he had searched after Niníel and since none else had been brave enough to venture out into the woods, no one could contradict him on this point. Dorlas’ death was thus accounted for, and no one would have suspected Brandie anyway. He had never been thought to be of bravery or fierceness and now he could get away with murder because of it.

Night fell and the people began making their way back towards the dragons corpse, carrying with them bundles of wood and grass which they had collected. More people seem to have arrived now, perhaps a messenger had been sent back to Brethil and told them everything and now they came to witness the dragon's pyre. She went too. This would not be the last funeral that she attends, there will be Túrin’s as well and she hoped that it would be soon, for once the bodies were buried, she could put this entire affair behind her.

Although of course she could not, and it was a fanciful thought to think such. The past would follow her around forever, and leaving it behind, would be more of a decision of refusing to look back. After this night, what? Nienor thought as she stood alone in the crowd, as people moved past her piling fuel among Glaurung’s body. Her soul felt dull and throbbing and she feels isolated from herself and from the outside world. She did not know how she could go back to Brethil, back to the same house where she and Túrin had lived and there bear her child, raising it in the shadow of its hidden identity.

Niënor had lived in two places, Doriath, and before that in Hithlum. She could not go back to Doriath, for her mother and she had gone forth from it so proudly, and to crawl back to the protection of the elves, and Thingol and Melian- Melian with her piercing gaze- she could not lie to her about the identity of the child's father and the Maia would know, and pity Niënor. And Doriath was protected by Melian’s magic and Niënor had had enough of wandering through hostile forests.

Hithlum had been terrible enough that she and her mother had fled and her new memories gave her no reason to think that it had improved since. It had been her home, her home, she had thought of it even after years in Doriath, but she could not return to that place either.

The wood around it burned, but the dragon’s body seemed resistant to flame, even in death it had not lost its magical protections against fire. The orangey yellow light reflected in the corpse’s glossy black eye that no one had bothered to close. It seemed to stare at Niënor. Where parts of the body had caught fire, there was a terrible smell of scorched flesh. It would be hours before the entire body had been reduced to cool ash. Were the observers supposed to stay that long? Standing over the dead body of your enemy had its satisfactions yes but everything grew dull with time.

Niënor wanted to return to Nan Girith and sleep- of course the poor grieving widow would not be denied someone's cot- because it would block out everything, allowing her to rest for a time not knowing or caring who she was. But she could not leave yet. She did not want to go back alone, she was finished with this landscape in the dark, so instead her eyes sought out Brandir on the other side of the fire. She wove her way around the burning and towards him.

He was sitting on the ground, and he must have been transported up here for his leg, though it had been visibly tended to was still twisted in an incorrect position. She sat next to him, for she did not want to converse with him while standing over him and looking down.

“Where is a place that is friendly to strangers, that is not Brethil and and inhabited by people who do not know- anyone from it?” She asked without preamble. Conversation, ordinary talking, even with him seemed hard as if her words are shouted from very far away. As if she was removing herself body, mind, and voice from the company of everyone here. Niënor could not remember speaking all day.

“Linreth,” said Brandir, and he seemed to have thought about this question previously, for he replied instantly. “It is a small village, to the southwest of here. Those who dwell there keep to themselves mostly, and leave well enough alone. But they will let honest folk live among them, if they do not make trouble.”

Linreth. That name meant nothing to either of her set of memories. “That is where I shall go, after this leg heals. I can ride well enough if slowly,” he added.

“What, you are leaving? But your people... and why?” She turned her head from the conflagration in front of them, the firelight leaving a reddish smear across her vision as she stared at him in the darkness.

“No longer my people,” Brandir responded and his tone was flat and bitter. “There has not been a time where they did not begrudge me leadership, for you saw when Túrin came they would disregard blood so that they could have an able-bodied leader. And after yesterday when none would lend aid to Túrin, Dorlas, and Hunthor, I cursed them and denounced them completely. I would have had to renounce my right to leadership soon anyway, or be ousted, if Túrin had lived after slaying Glaurung, for they would not have suffered me, with a dragon slayer in their midst.”

His words were true, for even those with minds twisted to wickedness were preferred over those whose bodies were twisted. Such was the case with herself. If Glaurung had viciously attacked her, slashing her face and torso into a twisted mass of ropey scars, Túrin would never have taken such an interest in her. But as it had been, with only her mind broken, and her pale skin and long blonde hair still very much intact, Túrin had cared.

Niníel had never considered how Brandir must feel, to have all but his title taken from him by a foreign man, not even of the House of Haleth. Túrin had commanded men as he willed, and they had obeyed, just as she had. “I will go with you.”

“Niënor-”

“What is there for me here anymore either? And it will be safer to travel with a companion.” He did not object to this, and she was glad. Túrin would have told her to stay behind. Stay behind, he would have said and brought up her child and her overall weakness but there was no such protestation from Brandir. Linreth. It did not sound like a bad place, and there she could go by the name Niënor with no suspicion. She could have a new life for her and her child.

She must only wait for one funeral to pass, and a broken bone to heal and then Niënor will begin another journey, again seeking safety. The great coiled body in the fire blazed, it scales beginning to melt off of the corpse and drop on to the blackened wood below. She must only wait a little while.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are enjoying the story, reviews are nice.
> 
> The title is from Dante's Inferno, the last line.

The days passed and growing child made her sick every morning. Niënor grew to know the feeling of twice tasted food in her throat, a rancid, slimy taste as her body pushed it back up. How counterproductive: she must continue eating so the baby could grow and so that she could stay healthy to nourish it, and yet the growing weight pressed down on her stomach, driving her appetite away. And all this discomfort to created another life. She retched again, spitting out the last bitterness and wiping her mouth in a practiced motion, wondering if Morwen went through the same trials when she had carried her.

Finally, _finally,_ she and Brandir were departing Brethil. The month since that night at the top at Cabed-en-Aras had dragged on seemingly forever. While waiting for his leg to fully heal, Niënor had spent much time with her memories, too much time sometimes. There was a whole other life packed into her head, more knowledge, but also more places, people, things to mourn for. Like her mother, the strong woman who was with her until they were torn apart in the woods. And her father, once an unknown figure now a man with a name, whom her mother had insisted was not dead. When the memories became too much, overwhelming her with a dead past, she went to visit Brandir.

He was doubly impaired with his usual disabled leg, and his fresh injury, and did not have many visitors as word had gotten around that he had renounced his leadership. Now that Túrin was gone some wanted Brandir back, and resented him for abandoning them, and others like Hilda, Dorlas’ widowed wife wished him already gone so that the people could get on with choosing a leader, preferably her. At least the new leader whoever it was will not have to worry about a dragon and Orcs, as Túrin had seem to that.

At Brandir’s, she asked him to teach her all that he knew about healing and medicine, thinking that it was time she, Niënor, could do something for herself not just to live off of his charity in Linreth. She dutifully absorbed what he taught: poultices, herbs, stitching skin, knitting bones back together, and easing pain. They spoke only of these things, physical pains and how to fix them, not of her hurt. The only indication that anything had changed, was that Brandir now called her Niënor, which pleased her even as it reminded her of all that she now knew.

Besides Brandir, she did not see many other people. Niënor had avoided others. She had an irrational fear that if she spoke with anyone, they would find out who she was, and her first relationship with Túrin. The truth was vile, messy, and it frightened Niënor that it could burst forth at any moment, unwanted, like vomit or seed, begetting the children Pity and Disgust. Niënor had felt enough of the first when she had come to Brethil, as a ignorant women with a child’s mind, and enough of the second with herself in the time that followed Turin’s death.

Niënor also asked Brandir a great deal about her pregnancy. She wanted to learn the most she could about what was and would happen to her. Niníel had not known that she was with child for almost two months after having misread the various signs.

The sickness usually improved the closer one got to the birth, he told her and he gave her various tonics to help. But they did not have much effect. It seemed that her own body view the child as something that must be purged. No. She must stop viewing this baby is dirty. She tried, but every so often these thoughts correct into her mind. What would Túrin have said about this child and he lived after Cabed-en-Aras? He had not cared for it much before, and at any rate he was dead. Nienor should stop asking herself for his counsel. She was its mother, and she was going to love this child fiercely, just as Morwen had her.

Túrin had had a funeral atop that hill. She had thrown her handful of earth on top of the coffin, and turned, eager to leave and escape the too warm sun. Spring was bleeding into summer. She had felt nothing.

Today was the day that she would depart Brethil with Brandir. His one leg had healed well, and he could ride again. Despite the fact that they had planned their departure from the time they had returned from Nan Girith, it did not seem as if she was truly leaving. Her mind remained in Brethil, stuck.

Packing had not taken long. Most furniture was too heavy for the one small cart they would take, and Niníel’s personal items were very few.

Besides clothes, the only things in the house it was really hers was the slate that Brandir given to her to practice her letters on as she was taught to read, and her wedding ring, which she kept, for it could be sold later. The other items in her house were Túrin's. Niënor piled what she could not take neatly on the kitchen table. Brander had sold both their houses to Sigren, a kinswomen of his and Hunthor's. The coin from this sale would help them as they established their new life in Linreth, and Niënor did not begrudge Sigren any of her unneeded things. She was one of the few that had been constantly loyal to Brandir and she too mourned for Hunthor. She left the slate. Niënor could read and write very well, and in several languages.

She walked through the rooms of this place that she felt no connection to. She had cleaned it thoroughly a day before so that Sigren would not have to scrub away her left over dirt. Niënor was practical, and it astonished her how much of herself she had lost, not just memories, but her entire being when she became Niníel.

A knock of the door, and Brandir’s voice. It was still early, the morning light was not yet bright or hot, but he must be as eager to leave as she was. Not that Linreth held so much promise, but that Brethil emphatically did not. Brandir had said his scant goodbyes already and she had none.

After lifting her bag, exiting, mounting her horse, the one which was pulling the cart, placing her bag on top of necessary objects, they went. An uneventful leave taking. If any watched them go, Niënor did not see. They ride out of Brethil and the landscape turns unfamiliar. She had not left town in the years that she had lived as Niníel. Now, to be riding freely, not fleeing from anything, with Brandir at her side, she felt better than she had in the past months. Leave taking. Taking leave. She grabbed her leave out of the hands of Brethil and took it, forcefully. She had left.

In Linreth, they planned to work in exchange for housing. Hopefully they will have need of a healer, but if not they can do other work. Morwen would have been horrified at Húrin’s daughter hiring herself out to do others' work, and Niníel had possessed no necessarily skills, but Niënor now thought that there was dignity it work, in supporting herself. She had never really needed to in Brethil.

As they rode, the trees thinned out, and then disappeared all together. They would reach Linreth at nightfall; it was not so far from Brethil, only far removed from the minds of its in inhabitants. Something entered her mind, and Niënor slowed her horse’s pace to match Brandir’s. In her relief upon leaving, she had increased the animal’s speed, even though hers was the one that pulled their small cart.

“If we live together in Linreth, we will have to present ourselves as something else than unrelated friends.” It was true. People will talk. She did not want to have people talking about her.

“Shall we be betrothed then? And then get, ‘married,’ soon after?” Brandir tactfully did not suggest that they be brother and sister. It would not work anyway. They nothing alike, he dark and she pale.

“A bit late to be betrothed, with my condition.” Niënor said, gesturing to her stomach, large enough now to be noticeable now, after four months.

“Oh yes- right, of course,” he said. She half smiled. Niníel would never have said something of this sort. “Married then, if you want?” She nodded. Niënor would not mind having Brandir as a false husband, for  this fiction was more convenient than the truth, more acceptable. Túrin’s wedding ring had been buried with him, and she no longer wore here, but if asked, they can say that rings were not the custom in Brethil, or that  they were forced to sell them. They could present themselves as a poor couple, having left Brethil, because...because the new lord of that place thought very ill of Brandir. Niënor mentioned these details to Brandir, including him in her fiction.

“Somewhat true,” he replied. “If Hilda does become their leader, she certainly will.” Niënor wondered how the people of Brethil would pick their new leader. Túrin had not been elected, he had just arrived, and begun directing the villiage’s activity, and none had restrained him. If the people had accepted Túrin as their leader, then perhaps they deserved Hilda or whoever else stepped forward to claim this vacant title.

As they rode on, Niënor told Brandir what happy things she remembered from her other life. There were not many. When she was growing up in Hithlum,it always seemed to be cold, eternally gray and winter, and hunger never seemed far away. Once Niënor had taken in a cat, feeding it scraps smuggled of her meals, but Morwen had found out and had it drowned, saying that Niënor was wasting food, that cats carried diseases, and that it would be better for it to go this way, than killed by a larger cat or starving.

Young Niënor had been livid, not speaking to her mother for several days, relenting only when she saw that her silence seemed not to affect Morwen at all. She did not share memories like this with Brandir, but held onto them tightly, for they gave her glimpses of who she had been. Instead, she spoke of living in Doriath, of its riches, and majesty, and magic. There she had been happy, with only the shadow of a lost father and brother, both of which she had never known.

Her grief for Túrin was an odd thing, part of her, but not painful, like an old scar, or a hole left by a lost tooth. There, but not noticeable unless she prodded it. She grieved for Turin in the same way that she grieved for her father, dutifully, but not as for someone she had truly known. For she had not really known him, even his true name and lineage had come to her as a warning from Brandir, though she had not grasped its full meaning. She could not rightly say whether Túrin was at peace in death, for though he had slain Glaurung, it seemed that he always must strain after something that he could not possess- like to wed her, when she would not, or to go to war after they were wed, and he had given Nienor his promise that he would not. Had he come victoriously home, to live as chieftain with an innocent wife and a new baby, he would not have been content and would have searched after some other goal, not resting, even had he slain Morgoth himself.

Niënor’s new mind was clear and judged people more sharply than previously. She was grateful for these new insights into the nature of people, but did not always like their harsh, truthful conclusions.

The sun moved across the sky, and they moved across the landscape, both moving towards the west. Almost there, she thought, almost there. Another destination, another arrival.

Lights and buildings came into view. They were tidy looking. This place would be her home, until, until? She had no goal after coming here, only to find a place away from everything that had happen. She was not like Turin, she thought, unsure if her mind could judge herself as truly as it could others. Nienor only wanted to find a place to live safely, to raise her child free from the want, fear, and oppression that had marked her own childhood. She had brought her horse to a complete halt, waiting to go forth into this new place. Brandir came up beside her, stopping as well.

“Shall we go, Niënor?”

This place would be her new home, her fourth. “Yes, husband,” she said, trying out the new word in her mouth. She would have to get used to calling Brandir that. “We shall.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the lack of updates, I'll write the next chapter soon, but I did an art of Brandir, and I wanted to share with you how I see him.


	5. Chapter 5

Linreth was ordinary. To live in a place that was not ravaged by Easterlings, or by dragons, or anything violently evil and antagonistic, was mind boggling to her. Niënor almost could not believe that such a place existed, and normal life was a new and novel thing to her.

And yet this quiet town had been her home for the past seven months. She begun to work at an inn to earn money, while Brandir was an assistant to Linreth's one overworked, aging healer. She found that to work was rewarding. She learned to do tasks efficiently and well. Niënor had friends, something that, save Brandir, she had never possessed, because even in Doriath, she and her mother had kept to themselves. Nienor thought that eventually she would like to leave the work at the inn, and join Brandir at healing, but at the present a steady income must be had. But now she could plan for her future. Nienor possessed goals for her life. This was all new.

Sigren wrote to them faithfully. Brethil was alright, she reported. Hilda had indeed become chief, but her leadership remained untested as the town was currently at peace. Sigren often included brief greetings from other villagers from other villagers, those who probably felt guilty, at Brandir's departure. Nienor would have snubbed such people blankly- where was their generosity when Brandir sought aid for Túrin?- but Brandir relayed messages back to them all in his responses to Sigren. "You are too kind," Niënor told him, watching him write back.

"They were my friends and neighbors for all my years of life. I can at least be cordial," he responded. Brandir would eternally seek the good in all people, and Niënor admired that, even as she knew that she would not be capable of the same.

Her new life was not all easy. During the night she often woke with a gasping, shuddering fear, a fear that though she had cheated death and doom, but that it was not satisfied and pursued her still. Her cries carried over to her waking where she lay, shaking on her portion of the bed that she and Brandir still shared, because furniture was quite expensive.

She knew that Brandir heard her crying out- and she hated that he did- but he would not speak to comfort her, for Niënor acted strong, even around him, and he seemed to believe her act, or know that she was trying to be so. He would not hold her either, as he has when she was Niníel, not with them in the same bed and all. So Niënor bore the grief and terror over something that she could not name, alone and still, in the darkness, not crying. She stroked her belly, large with another person dwelling inside, thinking that if a child could sense the moods of its mother, she should try to reassure morning sickness stopped in time, her stomach becoming accustomed to the weight against it.

The one thing from her past that she carried into her her new life, besides an unborn baby that she strove to want, were the memories of her mother. Where was Morwen Eledhwen now? In the dark nights, Niënor mentally traced her family across Middle-earth. Turin was dead and buried at Cabed-en-Aras. Húrin was dead, or captured as Morwen always insisted, at Angband. A blonde older sister was dead at Hithlum before Niënor had been born. And she was alive. Where had her mother gone to, after they were seperated? If she had fallen under Glaurung's sway, he was dead now, and her mind would be free. Unless she was dead. But Morwen had not been old in body when they left Doriath, and the women that Nienor ahd known would not let an inglorious death take her- surely? So many unknowns.

Finding her father was impossible, even though the one place where he would be was known, and finding her mother was equally so. It frustrated Niënor, that her mother could possibly be so close, and yet she knew no place to begin searching, so she would stay put while Morwen remained lost. At night Niënor prayed for protection for that proud wandering women, having spent enough time among the elves to have at least an acquired reverence for their gods.

When Niënor finally gave birth, she was in more pain than any other time in either of her previous lives. It was late fall, and her skin felt feverishly hot nonetheless as she convulsed on the bed, her body wracked with movements not her own. Brandir was there, and one of the new healers that he had been training. Everything was progressing as it should be he said again and again, as the birth continued, reassuring her. There seemed to be no real need for assistance, and Nienor wished that she could send them away, to suffer alone, so that she would not be seen like this, sweating and helpless. But Brandir was her supposed husband, and her friend, and she she submitted to their ministrations. Her mind came back to her earlier fears about this child being a monster, maybe that was the cause of the pain, they would have to kill it after she gave birth, and Brena, the other healer here, because she could not know about this, she would figure out what Niënor had done, with her own brother...

 _I shall die,_ she thought, her mind clear beyond the pain. _I shall die like this, weak and passive, killed by Túrin's worse deed_ , as Glaurung had called it. And then she heard crying and saw blackness, and when she woke, there was a child, a girl, and the dragon had been wrong, for this baby was the most perfect thing that Niënor had ever seen.

Now she cried, for the first time in her new life, overcome with the emotion but utterly happy this time, as she held the tiny red faced infant that had the same color eyes as her own. Lalaith, she thought, for a name. That had been the name of her mother's first child, the happy little girl who Niënor had only learned about from servants, because her mother had never mentioned her. Lalaith, meaning laughter. She, mourning, had given birth to joy.

The baby looked like her, and Niënor was glad, for it was her child, never to be touched by the shadow of Túrin's life. Now that she was a mother, Niënor could fully understand the grief it must have caused her own mother to send Turin away, the only thing that she had left in the world, to Doriath for protection. She could not part with Lalaith, who wrapped her tiny hands around Niënor's large ones, for anything.

And it was good, too, that the child resembled her too, because it was supposed to be Brandir's child, and Túrin and he looked nothing like the latter. She had gotten used to the little things that came with pretending to be married.

It was wrong, what people said, about having the innate ability to mother a child. All the skills were not there at her disposable after giving birth. Lalaith's mind was as Niníel's had been, young and learning about the entire world around her, and so Nienor began parenthood terrified that she would do accidentally do some ill and hurt this tiny person she had been given. Has she done something wrong? She wondered as Lalaith cried intermittently during the nights. Did she cry this much when she was a baby? Niënor forged ahead, wishing for Morwen's help. "I am sorry," she said to Brandir during one such night when Lalaith's cries woke them both up. "She is not even your child, you should not have to hear this-"

"All babies cry, you need not apologize. You wept often as Niníel, because you had no words with which to express your feelings. She is the same." Brandir said, rising and lifting the baby from her cradle. His comforting of Lalaith seemed to work, and Nienor fell back into sleep instantly, exhausted, grateful.

Watching her child grow served to spark Niënor's interest in memory and the human mind. Lalaith will eventually speak, later read and write, and learn about the world around her. But babies did not need to learn languages in the way that she had. Niníel was taught how to speak again, but Lalaith would eventually call her 'Mama,' after only hearing it said by those around her. She would understand that was what people called parents, instinctively. Similarly, the concept of numbers was understood by young children, but back in Brethil, Niníel had sat with a slate while Brandir explained that certain quantities of things were called one word, and others were called a different name. What made the difference? What was so different about a child's mind? If she sang Elvish lullabies to Lalaith, would she be able to speak their tongue as well?

And as for human personality, Lalaith would be shaped by the things that Niënor told her about the world. But if she has stolen away and raised by Easterlings, or Orcs, or Elves, she would be a completely different person.

Niënor wondered about this endlessly to Brandir, and he gave her what books to read on the subject, but there was precious little material. She hoped that she was not bothering him, by bringing up details of her, and indirectly his, past, but he seemed content to talk with her about the subjects for hours. "You should write your own story down," he advised. "Who else has experienced two childhoods?"

"I remember everything from when I was first found. I remember what it is like not to have words to describe anything I saw around me," she mused. She would have to write anonymously of course, and leave out the personal bits. "You know, speaking of children's minds, I was thinking of how I became attached to Túrin. He was the first face that I ever saw, and it puts me in mind of baby chicks. I wanted to be with him at all times- remember how I used to follow him around?" She had come far enough from him and tragedy that memories of that time could be spoken of without tightness in her chest and unease.

"Yes," he said grinning. "I do remember that."

"Really it should have been you that I fell in love with," Niënor said, in the same light hearted vein. "Because it was you who cared for me, you who taught me everything, you who confronted me-" she broke off jesting suddenly, realizing how her words could be taken. "I mean- not that I do not love you, just not romantically…" she trailed off, looking downwards to rock Lalaith's cradle with her foot. She did not bring up the subject again, feeling that she had injured her friend by talking about love. Brandir had never married, and because of his disability, there was little chance that he ever would. Niníel had wondered about this, as she saw that most people his age had partners. When she asked him why he was not married like everyone else, he only replied that not everyone had a spouse.

"But do you want one?" She had persisted with childlike earnesty. Niníel was not sure exactly how people got married, who did the choosing or picking.

"Maybe," he responded, always patient with her questions. "Were I in love with someone." Niníel had not understood about love. Even when she had married, understanding of love had eluded her. She knew that it was when two people cared for each other, did everything to keep the other safe, protecting each other. But this definition was confusing because while Brandir had done these things for her for as long as she had been in Brethil, but Brandir did not want to marry her, and Turin did. And she had said yes because Niníel thought that she loved Túrin- imprinting, she thought now.

Now here in Linreth, with her little blonde child, and her oldest friend, and her memories of her mother, and she understood much more about love. _But perhaps not everything,_ she thought, laying next to Brandir in the still one bed that they had because neither of them had gotten around to buying a second one. But it was a freezing cold winter now, and Niënor has a new baby, and no time for whatever this was.


	6. Chapter 6

It was now golden summer, more than a year since they had left Brethil. Life went on, and Niënor watched Lalaith grow, amazing at how quickly the time passed. She often found herself talking at length to others about what her daughter had done that day, or calling for Brandir, “She stood up, come and see if she will do it again!”

Niënor was aware that she ridiculously in love with her child, and she did not care. Was Morwen like this with her? Did her mother exclaim over tiny Niënor when she stood up, by planting her hands on the ground and pushing up to stand on her own for a few seconds shrieking happily in her own nonsense words before she toppled over again? Though she wanted Morwen to have been there in the same place that she was now, exclaiming over Niënor’s first attempts at walking, she could not imagine her mother expressing such open affection. Invaded Hithlum was not a place for such familial happiness, and Morwen was never so open even at the best of times. 

But Linreth was peaceful, and Nienor did not hesitate to be so for her own baby. And she did, doing her best to make Lalaith feel loved like Brandir had when Niënor had been a child. And though Brandir was not her father, Niënor had never seen a man so enamored of a child. When she called for Brandir to come and see Lalaith standing he rushed into their front room, knelt down and lifted Lalaith into the air, telling her that soon she would be walking better than he could. 

Niënor read to her, feeling  that it would be good for the baby, even if she could not understand the stories yet. She could find no tales  about women who fought dragons, and she had not yet decided if she ever planned to tell her daughter about her own mother’s past, so Niënor created her own, telling Lalaith about two women called Morwen and Aerin who fought a dragon and defended their village. She did not give the dragon a name. 

Thinking of Aerin, Niënor considered writing to that women. She was her last link to her old past, and Niënor wished her well for the help she had given to their family, but as far she knew Aerin still lived under Brodda and his Easterlings, and Niënor did not want to reveal that she was still alive to Brodda if he read his wife’s letters.

She continued her work at the inn. Niënor adopted more and more responsibility, until she directed many of the other workers in their tasks. She likes providing a meal, bed, or conversation to its patrons. She had been on a few journeys in her life, and appreciate each act of kindness shown along the way no matter how tiny. While she was still interested in the healing arts, particularly or healing the mind, Linreth’s residents were healthy and there were not enough of them to need- or pay- two full time healers. Niënor contented herself with tending  Lalaith’s minor wounds - many as she had begun walking, and almost immediately running- and helping Brandir when he had a surplus of patients.

She knew that this was not some far-off, epic destiny, but that was all right. Túrin had been burdened with a great doom but while his deeds might someday be the stuff of songs, heroes rarely got to come home to a mother, best friend, child and most recently, a little white and black cat that had followed her home and none of them had had the heart to turn away.

But not everything was peaceful. Her feelings for Brandir, her protector, physician, teacher, friend, and now ‘spouse,’ changed very suddenly and entirely without Niënor’s consent. One moment they were eating their evening meal together, she holding Lalaith, and he speaking about some small matter. Watching him, Niënor realized that she wished to be married to him, really married, body and soul. Her heart beat against her breastbone, as he finished speaking and made eye contact with her, his look dictating a question, but his words were lost in the loudness of Niënor’s own mental realization. She felt dizzy, and off balance. Why must she feel like this?  With Túrin, she had not felt such. She had been taken with him, but then, Niníel had been taken with everything around her in those days. Túrin had asked for her, and she had eventually said yes, because Niníel felt incomplete, with half her life missing, and because she knew that Túrin was something important to her, she would do anything to get those pieces of herself back. 

Now everytime she faced Brandir, Niënor felt self conscious, awkward. Barely able to speak to him, Niënor dealt with this by avoiding her old friend as much as she could in a shared house. Why would something like this happen to her? Niënor was not some young maiden who could barely look at her beloved. She had suffered a dragon, and doom, and very nearly death, and yet! 

As Niënor lay beside him at night, covered by a blanket even though it was summer, and hot, because without something covering her, she felt exposed. There in the broiling heat of the night with her child asleep paces away in her cradle, Niënor stayed awake, wanting him.  _ Coward, _ she thought of herself, choked with desire and terror that accompanied the fleeting thought of voicing her feelings to him.  _ Coward, that I cannot tell him.  _

Niënor understood the content of all the works concerning love now. She understood why love could cause death, and bring down cities, how one could fulfill the most adventurous tasks, or create the most insane scheme only to get one person to look on them as beloved.  

Her love for her daughter was like cool water, necessary for her to live, sustaining, strengthening, but this was fire, raging inside her, burning the meat of her heart. And though she could end this torment by a few words to Brandir, then he would know, know how she felt, and she would be open, exposed, raw, vulnerable, and the worst part was that if he did not feel the same, he would be gentle and polite about it, and Niënor would never be able to face him again. 

Niënor pondered how Brandir might feel about her. While she remembered when Turin asked for her in marriage the first time, she had refused, because of some nameless unease, and because Brandir has advised her not to accept his proposal. But he had not warned her to refuse because of his own feelings, but because of his own misgivings, and she had judged him to be completely without jealousy at the time at least. But looking back, perhaps he had spoken from his own interests as well. But then why had Brandir never said anything? Even now, when she had clearly expressed her lack of feelings for Túrin after getting her memories back, now when a year had passed, if he felt something then why his silence?

He must feel nothing then. Niënor did not want to risk it. Their friendship and their living situation would be ruined. But then again, if he should feel the same, if he looked at her in the same way, then they could marry truly this time, and...

Niënor pulled her blanket tighter around herself, and turned on her side, farther away from him. If she was too cowardly to broach the subject, then she should not get the pleasure of imagining a positive outcome. 

Yet still she wanted.

It was a Midsummer's festival, one of Linreth’s one of only communal gatherings and Niënor and Brandir sat together, watching the dancing villagers swirl in a field edged with colored lights, when Brandir touched her arm and said suddenly, “I would dance with you, Nienor, if I could.” 

She was startled. He must have thought that she was envious of all the other couples. Niënor wanted to tell him that he could put his arms around her without the pretext of a dance to make it acceptable but instead answered, “It is well. I have no wish to dance.” Which made her sound uninterested, and he lifted his hand from her arm, but she could still feel the ghost of his touch against her skin.  _ Coward, _ she thought. “No, wait, I mean, that is very kind of you. Thank you.” Niënor added hastily.

The seasons changed, and while her feelings did not go away, they shifted form, so that while she still loved him silently, she did not feel that she was burning every time their eyes met. She came to terms with her feelings, or almost. Niënor would like to believe that she did anyway. She could ignore many sorts of pain, and love was no exception. Perhaps something would happen, or perhaps no miracle would occur. 

Another amazing thing happened in the autumn, that took her mind off of assumed unrequited love for quite a time. The traveling woman arrived at the inn, looking like any of those who passed through, and it was not until she removed her cloak, and Niënor’s heart lept in surprise, and recognition. “Mother!” She gasped, hastening to Morwen. “Lady, what is your name?” she said, keeping her voice calm, trying to avoid a scene which she knew that Morwen would hate. But her excitement overcame her, and the words tumbled out of her mouth, “It seems to me that you were once called Morwen Eledhwen, and my mother besides.” 

Then the woman looked up sharply, her eyes combing Niënor’s face. “We were separated years ago as we left Doriath, and my memory was taken, but I found my way to Brethil, and Túrin was there as well. Now I live here with my husband and my- our baby girl and-” she broke off.  

“Túrin, you say?” Morwen said.

“He is dead now. And Glaurung with him. Mother, please come home with me, there is so much that I wish to tell you.”

“My searching all these years has not been in vain.” She did not smile, she hardly ever did, but her face was lit with the radiance that had given her the surname Eledhwen. Morwen allowed Niënor to take her arm and lead her to the small house she called home. It seemed impossible that she had found another lost part of her life, but here was her mother, listening as Niënor told her very nearly everything of the years they had spent apart. She left out her marriage to Túrin. Her mother had endured enough sorrow as evidenced by her own account of wandering, sparsely detailed as it was. 

“Your father is dead.” Morwen told her daughter, later in the night. Niënor was tired, Brandir and Lalaith having long since retired, but did not want to stir from her chair, wanting one more moment with her mother, fearing that it would all be false come the morrow. “I felt it as surely if I had died, and I dreamt of him.” 

“Where is his body? And why would he have only perished now as it has been decades since we lost him?” But some things remained unanswered. The night stretched on, and in the morning Morwen still remained with them. Their family expanded to include a fourth person, and Niënor, anxious to make her mother feel that she was necessary and not receiving charity,gave Lalaith into her care while she and Brandir attended to their daily labors.  Niënor had thought that the name might bother her mother, as it hearkened to her first lost child, but Morwen showed only care for her grandchild. 

“Morwen resembles you,” Brandir told Niënor one night. 

“We look nothing alike,” she responded, half asleep.

“Yes, you have a different hair and eye colors, but in your faces is the same structure and your determination to fight anyone that comes between you and your loved ones. And of course, she is very beautiful.” The last bit consumed her thoughts, and Niënor could not sleep thinking of it. If he was commenting this in favor of their looking alike, and he thought that Morwen was beautiful, and he thought that Morwen was beautiful, then it mean that he thought that Niënor was as well. She had trouble falling asleep after that remark. 

“Brandir loves you very much,” Morwen said one night. The mentioned was not with them, but off with a patient, and they prepared supper while waiting for him. Niënor was startled, and wished to immediately ask her mother why she thought such, for Morwen had always been extremely perceptive, and if she thought that Brandir’s feelings for her daughter were truly romantic, then she must be right, surely? 

But Niënor could not put any of these questions to her mother, and so, very glad that her back was turned, she replied, “Yes, I know. He is more dear to me than words can say.” But she  _ could  _ speak to him and lay her feelings bare, she was only scared. And yet she had been terrified before, in front of the dragon, before Taeglin, in childbirth, in leaving Brethil, and she had come thought those to greater happiness.  _ I must, _ she thought, as the days passed, with no action on her part.  _ I must.  _

He took ill that winter, not seriously, but Niënor tended to him eagerly, feeling that in caring for him, their roles were reversed from those years ago, and she could repay him a small part of her debt. And if she stroked his feverish sleeping forehead as well, this was her business. 

Early frost had fogged up the windows, the morning she decided to speak. She might be late going to her work, but it had been months, and what would Morwen say if she knew that her daughter was being behaving in such a retiring, coy fashion?

She walked to the room set aside for Brandir’s practice and his patients, her heart forgetting it's even rhythm, and putting against her ribs. “May we speak?” She walks nearer to him as he turned from his work. Suddenly she took his hand, not having planned this, but unable to stop herself. “Brandir,”

“Are you alright? Your hands are cold, have I given you my malady? Such is often the lot of physicians; I apologize.”

“No, I am quite well.”  _ So get on with it!  _ She scolded herself. She must be unnerving him with her odd behavior. “I- over these past years, I have been through so much. I am not the same person who married Turin, and I would not have done so today. I have realized so much about life, about myself, and today were I choosing a spouse I would choose you. You Brandir, my caretaker, and friend. I mean that I have feelings for you, and,” she could barely speak for the nervousness catching at her words. “I apologize if you do not feel the same, and I will never speak of it again-” 

Brandir pulled her towards him and kissed her, causing her to break off speaking. “I assure you, Niënor, there is no need to apologize,” he said softly. 

Niënor, filled with happiness, moved towards him again, and he, sensing her intent said, “Yes- but wait, I first want to say that when you first came to Brethil you had the mind of a child and I loved you as such, and I would not allow my feelings to grow because of that.  But after that night at Cabed-en-Aras I knew a different women, and I fell in love with her fully, as an equal.” 

“I love you so much,” Niënor replied. Her voice was choked with emotion and she embraced him again, showing her feelings when words seemed paltry.

When they married, they could not call it a wedding, but a renewal of vows would not be suspicious. Winter was a strange time for a wedding, but it suited Niënor well. For winter held death and cold, but in the frozen ground, the promise of spring, life, and hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story because it always bothered me that Niënor just/?? Killed her child without even stopping to think? And it bothered me that the baby was treated like a curse. Also Brandir is probably the most flawless character in the Slim and I wanted him to be happy.\
> 
> I couldn’t really think of a way to say it in the story, but Morgoth probably saw that Hurin’s daughter being a badass and making her own fate, and went: “well shit THAT’S not torture for my captive to watch,” and killed him.
> 
> I called it Forth, Again to Behold the Stars, from the last line of Dante’s Inferno- my classical education coming in handy- because in that story they are in hell but they come out, and they survived, and the stars are still there and they go on to heaven, well purgatory first but, and I think that that’s the theme of this fic, Nienor goes through a lot of bad stuff, but she survives and happiness is still there.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, comrades, but here's what Niënor looks like in my head. Watercolors.


End file.
